


What Are We, Mice or Men?

by LeesaPerrie



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-22
Updated: 2007-01-22
Packaged: 2018-12-17 17:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11856564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeesaPerrie/pseuds/LeesaPerrie
Summary: Rodney's thoughts on mice...WARNING: If you are claustrophobic, you may wish to skip this story.





	What Are We, Mice or Men?

**What Are We, Mice or Men?  
By Leesa Perrie**

I had a mouse, a pet one, long ago. It was before the arguments, the anger, the blame. Before my little sister came along. I was very young, hardly remember it really. But sometimes I do.

Had a dog, but that didn’t work out. Ran away, and never came back. Hope he found somewhere better to live, somewhere without arguments and anger and blame.

I decided cats were better than dogs, and once I had a cat I couldn’t have a mouse, could I? Not that I would have, having forgotten how nice they are to look at, to watch.

Lab mice; not a good idea to make pets out of them. I knew that, so I didn’t. Still, I liked to watch them, when no one was around to see me. Except that one time, when Carson was there and thought I was talking to him, not the mice. He probably just put it down to the fact I was so pumped up about getting the gene.

I slip down here sometimes, to his lab, when I know that no one is around, and just watch them. There’s something about them that’s soothing, as well as amusing from time to time. 

They’re kind of cute, but you wouldn’t get me admitting that to anyone. I can hardly admit it to myself. I don’t do cute, not really. Well, okay, but rarely. Hardly ever. Not even once in a blue moon.

Don’t have time for cute.

My sister’s afraid of mice. I used to scoff at that. But I don’t like small spaces, and she used to scoff at me for that. Though I think my fear is more valid than hers. Mice aren’t going to hurt you, but a small space could, if you got trapped. If the air was running out. If it all collapsed in on you.

If you’re stuck in a sinking puddle jumper.

But mice? I suppose if you cornered one it might bite, but really, how bad would that be? Though they are germ carriers, so maybe not so good. Hardly fatal though.

Not like small spaces can be.

Why am I thinking of mice? Well, one just ran through the gap in the wall, what’s left of the wall, that is. And I’m wishing I could be that small, get through that gap, get out. Stupid, of course. But right now, I don’t feel too smart. Too scared to be feeling smart.

Though if the mouse could get out, then air could get in. Which I already suspected. I’ve been here long enough to go through the ‘oh-crap-I’m-going -to-die’ stage, and the blind panic stage, and the ‘oh-no-I’m-suffocating’ and ‘okay-not-suffocating’ stages too. Now I’m just…distracting myself. Yeah. Or at least, trying to. Not doing such a good job of it, actually.

Stupid ruins. Stupid solid-not-going-to-fall looking ruins. 

I lost my radio when the walls collapsed, but I can hear distant sounds, like digging, talking, shouting. Not getting much closer, so it looks like I’ve got a while to wait for rescue yet. At least I’m not bleeding. Bruised, though. Oh, and let’s not forget the broken arm. Well, I think it’s broken. Feels broken.

There’s a beam over me, the only reason I’m not squashed like a bug right now, or hurt much worse than this. This is bad enough. 

Rats. A colleague at Area 51 had pet rats. Was always talking about them. I wasn’t in charge back then, or else I’d have told him to get back to work and stop distracting everyone. Talk about pets in his own time. 

He thought they were wonderful. Intelligent and loving. Maybe true, but somehow rats make my skin crawl. Mice, no; rats, yes. Strange really, they’re only bigger versions of mice after all. Too big. I think that’s what it is. They’re too big.

Heard of someone who had a squirrel for a pet. Really weird. But then rabbits are rodents too, and there’s nothing weird about keeping those as pets. Never liked them myself, though. Wouldn’t want a squirrel. Or a racoon.

Strange what thoughts wonder around your head when you’re trapped, alone, and possibly just a little bit concussed. 

Oh, look, another mouse. Or the same one, maybe. Can’t tell. Wonder where they’re coming from? Probably a nest somewhere in the walls, and these are the survivors running outside. 

There it goes, out the narrow gap. Hope they are getting out. 

Who’d have thought there’d be mice in another galaxy? Wonder if the Ancients brought them with them? Nice to think some Ancients kiddies brought their pet mice to another galaxy, and some of them got loose and scurried through the gate. 

I can just see it now. Mice running into the gate room, and through an open wormhole…

I think I maybe a little, just a tiny, itty bitty little bit delusional.

Maybe.

Tired. I know I’m tired. Probably not a good idea to take a nap. Don’t know how bad the concussion is. And I might have to yell again, so they can find me. Though my throat’s still sore from the last lot of screaming, no, yelling that I did. 

But so tired. Worked late last night before coming on this mission. Was up far too early as well. Probably just natural tiredness, not concussion.

Or not. I don’t know. I’m not a medical doctor.

I wonder if Carson names his mice?

Sleep…no, I shouldn’t…

\---------

Soft pillow. Feels nice.

My arm feels all kind of numb.

All of me feels kind of numb.

Carson must have me on the good stuff. Feeling kind of…floaty. That’s nice.

Vague memories of being dug out flitter through my mind. Being lifted, being carried. Voices talking, asking questions. Soothing voices. 

Vague, surreal memories.

Wonder how the mice are doing? Did they get out okay? 

Hope they got out okay.

Drifting… 

Floating…

\---------

I was released a couple of days later, but only to light duties. Seeing as my arm had a fracture and was in a cast, not to mention that I was still stiff from all the bruising, the idea of light duties suited me just fine. Though after a day or two of it, I imagine I’ll be bored enough to risk Carson’s wrath and get back to work, proper.

Talking of Carson, he insisted on walking me to my quarters, so that I ‘wouldn’t get sidetracked’. Really, as if I would.

Reaching my room, Carson hovered in the doorway. I was about to snap at him to let me be, when I noticed a cage on my desk. A cage with two white mice in it.

“Huh?”

Okay, so not one of my most intelligent utterances, but I was just recovering from being buried alive.

“You talked a lot,” Carson said with a grin. “About mice, mostly.”

“Oh,” another of my brilliant utterances, not. “You can’t hold me responsible for anything I might have said whilst drugged and concussed,” I snap at him, defensively.

“Ach, you think I haven’t seen you watching the mice in my lab at night?”

“What?” 

“I’ve seen you there late at night, but I slip away before you notice me. Thought you wouldn’t want to be caught,” he grinned. “They’re fascinating creatures. And very… soothing, I think was the word you used, to watch.”

“Humph,” that damn sneaky Scot. “So why have I got a cage of them?”

“Because you can’t have a cat, so why not a couple of pet mice? Not like I don’t have some to spare. They’re females, by the way.”

“Who said I wanted a pet at all?” I ask grumpily.

“You did.”

“I was drugged and concussed,” I protest a second time.

“Aye. Well, I’ll leave you to get some sleep. I’ve left food and instructions,” he pointed next to the cage. 

I sighed a put upon sigh, though I’m actually feeling rather pleased, and touched. Not that I would ever let him know that, of course. I do have an image to protect.

“I suppose I could look after them, if you insist.”

“Ach, lad, I know full well that inside that outer grouch, there’s a cuddly person trying to get out…” he grinned again, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Oh, please,” I groan. “Go and incorrectly psychoanalyse someone else. Or better yet, leave the psychoanalysis to a professional.”

He merely smirked knowingly and left.

Damn him. Almost as annoying as Sheppard.

Almost.

I walked over to the cage.

“So, what do I call you?”

The End

The poem that is responsible for the above nonsense:

**Mice  
By Rose Fyleman**

I think mice

Are rather nice.

Their tails are long, 

Their faces small, 

They haven't any

Chins at all.

Their ears are pink,

Their teeth are white,

They run about

The house at night

They nibble things

They shouldn't touch

And no one seems 

To like them much.

But I think mice

Are nice.


End file.
